It’s My Party
Seven Brides for Seven Mothers
Book 3
Whitney Dineen
Copyright © 2021 by Whitney Dineen
All rights reserved.
Published by 33 Partners Publishing
First edition
E-Book ASIN: B08WKKM3NN
Paperback ISBN: 9798716883802
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s overactive imaginations or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. And I don’t mean maybe.
No part of this book may be reproduced, copied, scanned, photographed, or distributed in print or electronic form without express permission of the author. But let’s face it, if you love it, she’ll probably let you share small portions. You still have to contact them first.
Made in the United States.
March 2021
Cover by: Becky Monson
Also by Whitney Dineen
Romantic Comedies
Love is a Battlefield
Ain't She Sweet
It's My Party
You’re so Vain (coming soon)
The Event
The Move
The Plan
The Dream
Relatively Normal
Relatively Sane
Relatively Happy
The Reinvention of Mimi Finnegan
Mimi Plus Two
Kindred Spirits
She Sins at Midnight
Going Up?
Love for Sale (coming soon)
Non-Fiction Humor
Motherhood, Martyrdom & Costco Runs
Conspiracy Thriller
See No More
Middle Reader Fiction
Wilhelmina and the Willamette Wig Factory
Who the Heck is Harvey Stingle?
Children’s Books
The Friendship Bench
DEDICATION
To everyone looking for love. It really is out there.
Chapter One
Sharon
Reaching for the journal precariously balanced on top of a stack of novels on her nightstand, Sharon Choate pops the lid off her penlight. She points it at the page and writes:
He fills my soul like a drunk pouring whiskey.
He came riding into my life on a one-legged horse named Dodge.
Take whatever you want but leave the ice cream.
She unconsciously starts to hum a twangy tune, inspiring her husband Phillipe to groggily ask, “You’re working on another song now?”
“Genius has no time clock, hon,” she responds before leaning over to give him a quick kiss on the forehead. “I’ll go work in the study.”
“Love you. Good luck,” he mumbles before rolling over. His snores immediately fill the room.
Sharon spends the next hour firing off titles for country western songs before starting her list for the day.
● Call Claire and see when the moving truck arrives.
● Text Romaine and tell him to either quit complaining about Cash or dump her butt already.
● Message the new song titles to Tooty and see which one she wants her to work on first.
Two double espressos and a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon later, Sharon heads to her studio over the garage.
Tooty responds:
Trent is history. Some hussy named Twila sent me pictures of the two of them together at my party in Nashville last week. That boy either has himself a doppelgänger or he’s fooling around on me. I say start with “Take Whatever You Want but Leave the Ice Cream.” But I’d prefer if you could write one called “Cheating Makes Your Dong Fall Off.” Obviously, the songs are up to you. I’m just brainstorming here …
Claire
There are so many ways to quit a job with flair. You can storm into your boss’s office and throw a hot cup of coffee on him (a potted plant would also work, but you might have a harder time claiming that was an accident); you could create a huge public scene so that onlookers would know what a reprehensible a-hole he is; or you could just stop working and wait and see how long it takes for him to notice you’re no longer doing your job.
I wish I’d channeled my mom’s feisty nature and taken one of those paths. Instead, I submitted my resignation through human resources along with the knowledge that I’d been offered a wonderful opportunity in the Pacific Northwest. I gave my two weeks’ notice at the same time I took my remaining two weeks of vacation time.
People don’t generally quit a dream job like mine—throwing launch parties for the biggest movie studio in the history of movie studios—to work at a lodge in rural Oregon. But of course, most people aren’t dating their boss only to discover he’s been cheating on them with up-and-coming starlets.
It’s not like I shouldn’t have seen it coming. Jack is the poster boy for Hollywood glamour. His socks are handwoven by Ecuadorian nuns, for heaven’s sake. His shoes are so bespoke, they’re practically sewn onto his feet.
For some reason, I thought my own star shone brightly enough to make me an equal in his eyes. My aunt is Tooty Jackson, seven-time country music award-winning singer of such hits as “Tie Me Up and Call Me Betty” and “His Expiration Date is Here.” You might be thinking, “so what if she has a famous aunt?” But my peripheral glow is much bigger than just Tooty. My mom writes all of Tooty’s songs and, wait for it, my brother is Romaine Choate. Yes, the rock god and lead singer of Turnip Garden.
I’m from music royalty and that counts in a place like Hollywood. At least it has up until now. I know how shallow that sounds, but in a town where everybody is somebody, it helps to use whatever clout you have to remain visible.
Standing in the middle of my walk-in closet, I wonder if I should bother taking my cocktail dresses. For all I know, working at the Willamette Valley Lodge might require planning hoedowns and rodeos. I’m going to work with my brother’s ex-fiancée, Tara Heinz, who is the pastry chef at the lodge. She used to be a supermodel, but she got tired of starving.
I was heartbroken when Tara and Romaine broke up. But Tara wanted a life out of the spotlight, which is not something she could have had being married to my brother. She’s currently dating the son of my new boss.
My phone rings with my mom’s signature ringtone, Patsy Cline’s “Crazy.” I hurry into my bedroom to pick it up. “Hey,” I greet after putting her on speaker.
“Hey yourself. When does the moving truck come?”
“Tomorrow morning. I’m not sure what all I should take.”
I hear fiddle strings being plucked in the background. She must be in her studio working on something for Tooty. “Why leave anything behind? Take it all!” she declares before breaking into a full riff like she’s battling the devil for territorial rights of Georgia.
“What if I don’t like it there? Then I’d be stuck with all my stuff.”
“What if all of your stuff makes it feel more like home and you wind up settling in faster that way?”
She may have a point.
“You sound happy that I’m leaving. Aren’t you going to miss me at all?” I ask desperately, feeling the need to know I matter.
“Yes and no,” she answers plainly. “I’ll miss knowing you’re only twenty miles away, but I’m only forty hours away from getting my pilot’s license, so pretty soon I’ll be able to fly to you anytime I want. I’ve already l
ooked into it and I can land at the airport in Albany.”
“I’d rather you fly commercially,” I tell her for the millionth time. My mom is an enormously driven woman and can do anything she sets her mind to, but her piloting a small jet is something that scares the bejesus out of me. The potential headlines are too scary. “Sister of Tooty Jackson/Mother of Romaine Choate Flies into a Mountain!” “Sharon Choate Dead After Forgetting to Fill Her Plane Up with Gas!” The possibilities are endless and terrifying.
“Honey, life is for the living,” my mom interrupts my morbid thoughts. “You have to grab the world by the balls and shake it up every now and again.” My mom grew up in Tennessee before going to college in New England, where she met my dad. Though her southern accent is barely discernible anymore, she’s held onto her colorful verbiage like she’s clinging to a bungee cord after flinging herself off the side of the Grand Canyon. Which she has done.
“I’d prefer you left the world’s junk alone and stayed safe,” I tell her. “I’d like you to live long enough to meet your grandchildren.” Why did I say that?
“Don’t you go blaming your lack of procreating on me. By the time I was your age, I had three babies, all potty trained. I don’t know what’s slowing you kids down these days.”
“Tell my older siblings, please. Once they’ve done their duty by you, you can complain to me, but not until then.”
“Lutèce told me she’s looking into a sperm donor. What do you think about that?” my mom asks.
“I think it could be great or awful. I mean, if she uses a sperm bank, she has no idea what she’ll wind up with—’cause you know people lie like dogs. How many Harvard graduates are really out there selling their swimmers? “If she uses a friend,” I continue, “she could run into custody issues.” After her last boyfriend decided he wanted an open relationship—which included other men … for him—my sister declared the opposite sex more trouble than they’re worth. She’s currently taking a rather lengthy relationship sabbatical.
“I think she should ask Travis or Vince,” my mom decides. “You know, keep the musical talent alive in the next generation.”
“I’m pretty sure neither Travis Tritt nor Vince Gill would be interested. They already have families. Why would they want a baby, and by a woman that grew up calling them ‘uncle,’ no less? Ewww.”
“They’re family friends and they’re too old to want to start over, so Lu wouldn’t have to worry about custody.”
“Their wives might have something to say about that,” I remind her.
“Quit pooping on my parade, Claire. I’m a problem solver and I’m just trying to solve a problem here. I’d also like to keep your sister from birthing a child of questionable lineage.”
While wrapping my shoes in pillowcases to keep them from getting scuffed, I reply, “You mean, having a child with no musical talent, like me.” I don’t know which line I was standing in when they handed out the music genes, but I didn’t get any.
“You’re as capable as anyone,” my mom says. “You just never worked at it.”
I took as many piano lessons as my sister and while she came out of the experience something of a virtuoso, I can barely play “Chopsticks” without tying my fingers into knots. Then there’s Romaine, who has never picked up an instrument he couldn’t play. “Whatever,” I tell my mom. “I’m just saying that you should leave Lu’s future baby daddy up to her and not get involved.”
“Okay, then let’s talk about your future baby daddy.”
“Mom, Jack and I just broke up. Please let me mourn before asserting any motherly pressure.”
“Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say. I’m sure there’s a lovely man waiting for you in Oregon.”
Throwing my last pair of Louboutins into a giant box with the rest of my footwear, I declare, “Just be here tomorrow at noon, if you’re still planning on driving up with me.”
“I’ll be there with bells on, hon! Dad says he’s sorry he can’t come too, but he has to fly to DC for a meeting this week, then he’s off to somewhere he can’t talk about for two more weeks.” My dad is a building contractor for the government. Since most of his jobs are top-secret, we have no idea what those buildings really are. But let’s face it, in this family, unless he was designing a concert hall, no one really cares.
“Tell Dad I love him, and I totally understand. Maybe he can come up sometime in the spring.”
“I’ll fly him up myself!” my mom declares excitedly. Great, both of my parents dead in a plane crash.
“I’ve got to go, Mom. Goodwill is coming by in a couple of hours and I have to make sure I have everything that I’m not taking ready for them to pick up.” I’m totally lying. Goodwill comes the day after I leave and will take everything left in the driveway. I just really need some time with my thoughts right now.
The most pressing thought being, what in the world am I doing moving to Oregon?
Chapter Two
Ruby
Rubbing the top of her grandpuppy Penny’s head, Ruby plays the words “qi” and “iguana” on her phone Scrabble game. “Take that, Tom!” she yells at the screen before bopping around in a happy dance.
“Are you playing Ouija board Scrabble with Tom again?” her good friend and lodge manager Chris asks.
“I am. I just kicked his butt with a sixty-eight-point play.” Peering up at her friend, she adds, “You know, most people would think I was crazy if I told them I thought I was playing Scrabble with my dead husband.”
“It does sound a little nuts, but when you showed me some of your recent game boards, it’s easy to believe Tom is a part of it.”
“One year to the day after his death,” Ruby says with a sigh, “I just felt him with me when I was playing and then the messages started popping up.”
“Tom loves you so much, whatever dimension he’s in, I know he’s checking in on you. I also know how much he loved beating you at Scrabble, so it makes sense that’s how he’d communicate with you.”
Leaning back in her office chair, Ruby pats her lap for Penny to jump up. “The boys aren’t quite sure if it’s real or if I’ve lost my mind.”
“You just need to pass on more messages. They’re probably so preoccupied with their new relationships, they aren’t thinking straight.”
Scratching Penny’s belly, Ruby replies, “Speaking of which, Claire Choate arrives in town today and starts her new job here at the lodge on Thursday.”
“What does that have to do with what we were talking about?” Chris asks, confused.
“Now that I’ve taken care of setting up my boys with their future mates, I’ve decided to branch out and share my matchmaking talents with others.”
“You’re going to set up Claire? You barely know her.”
“I’m going to set up Geoffrey,” Ruby announces. “But I think Claire might be the person I’m going to do that with.”
“That chef of ours has been pretty clear that he doesn’t believe in dating people he works with. What makes you think he’ll change his mind now?”
With a shrug of her shoulders, Ruby says, “I think he’s cautious about getting personally involved with those who report to him, which makes sense. But Claire is my staff, not his. Trust me, I have a good feeling about this.”
“If you can pull it off, it’ll be your third match this year.”
“I could turn pro!” Ruby jokes as she snuggles Penny close. “But in all honesty, I just want the people I love to share the same kind of happiness that Tom and I had. I think Claire is going to be instrumental in helping me do that.”
“How do you figure?”
With a twinkle of mischief in her eyes, Ruby mysteriously answers, “I have some ideas.”
Geoffrey
“Tara, what are you making for tonight’s dessert specials?”
“Chocolate pots de crème and a Grand Marnier soufflé, Chef Geoff,” she answers, her voice ringing with laughter. She’s been callin
g me Chef Geoff since she started working here.
After handing my wooden spoon to my sous-chef, Henry, I walk over and ask her, “Do you have an extra pot de crème? It’s my favorite.”
Tara reaches into the small refrigerator under her workstation and pulls one out. “Here. I made a ton.” The ramekin looks inviting with the bittersweet chocolate pudding topped with a swirl of freshly whipped cream.
“How does it feel now that everyone knows who you really are?” I ask. Tara was incognito for several months before we discovered the truth about her identity. It’s not every day a supermodel moves to the Willamette Valley to make pastries.
“Everyone is much cooler than I expected them to be. Which proves that I don’t belong in Los Angeles anymore.”
“I’m sure James has nothing to do with that decision,” I tease. Our boss’s son is one lucky man, having won Tara’s affections. I toyed with the idea of asking her out myself, but I don’t date employees. I never want anyone to feel like dating me is a prerequisite to a good working environment.
“James has a lot to do with it,” Tara confirms with stars in her eyes. “He’s wonderful, isn’t he?”
“Dreamy,” I answer before joking, “I’ve wanted to date him ever since I started working here.”
Tara shoots me the side-eye, like she’s trying to discern my sexual preference. She must ultimately guess the truth because she starts laughing. “I’m sure all kinds of men and women have the hots for James.”
“Just so we’re clear, you know I’m straight, right?” I have nothing against gay people -- one of my sisters is a lesbian. I just don’t want women having a misconception about my orientation, especially beautiful ones.
“I know you’re straight. But what I can’t figure out is why you never date anyone. You’re young, gorgeous, and in the prime of your life. The iron is hot, my friend.”
It's My Party: A Royal Romantic Comedy (Seven Brides for Seven Mothers Book 3) Page 1
